I stand up, brush off the back of my skirt, walk over to Conrad’s grave. The grass here is weedy, sparse. This at least would have made Anna happy. The headstone is plain. No inscription. Only Conrad’s name and dates: 1964–1983. He was barely eighteen when he died. A stupid kid who dreamed of being Hulk Hogan, who loved his mother more than she loved him, who wanted his father’s approval. It would have made him so happy to see Leo desperate, falling to pieces, after he drowned—to know how much his father truly loved him. I try to picture Conrad doing pull-ups in his doorway, arguing with Anna, his ugly terry cloth bathrobe, reading a comic on his cabin steps. Anything. But all I can see is his face, white with fear, terrified, pleading, while Jonas sat beside me on the boat and stayed my hand. The sudden understanding in his eyes before the waves sucked him under. I think about the choices I’ve made—the ones I’ve spent my life hiding from. The choice Jonas and I made that blustery day. The choice I made to keep Conrad’s secret from Mum; if I had had the courage to tell my mother—to allow her life to fall apart instead of mine—Conrad would still be alive. It wasn’t only Conrad’s dreams that died. Stupid, stupid children. Conrad ruined everything. Jonas ruined everything. I ruined everything.
I lie down on Conrad’s grave, put my mouth to the ground, and though I know he will never hear me, talk to him. I tell him I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve this. You did something terrible, I say, but I did something worse. I tell him about the prices I’ve paid, hoping it will count for something, though I know the burden of carrying a secret is nothing compared to the burden of earth he carries. I tell him about Peter, about the kids. And, for the first time in almost thirty-five years, I cry for him.
* * *
—
Peter is at the hotel bar, shoulders slumped, drinking something amber on the rocks. I can tell from the doorway that he’s had a long day. I know he’s waiting for me, looking forward to unburdening himself. But all I want is to go up to the room and crawl under the covers, hide from him, from myself. I am backing out when he turns, sees me.
“Memphis is a truly crap city,” he says as I pull up a barstool next to him. “And I can’t smoke in the bar.”
“What are you drinking?” I pick up his glass and take a sip. “Rum? That’s a weird choice. You okay? You look tired.”
“I spent the day talking to the dead. It’s no wonder this city has fallen into economic ruin. These people are so numbed by poverty and violence. It’s tragic. I interviewed a schoolteacher who’s already had three of his students murdered this year. Kids. It’s like a war zone, but even more pointless. And you?”
“I spent the day talking to the dead, too.”
Peter drains his drink and signals the bartender. “You went to the cemetery?”
“I did.”
“How was that?”
“It was strange to see it after all these years.” I picture the grave—Conrad’s headstone already worn by time, my tears watering bare patches of dirt. “It took me a while to find it. In my memory, he was buried on top of a hill. But the grave was down in a low hollow. All I really remember about the funeral is how muggy it was, and Anna complaining that her hair was getting frizzy and refusing to say the Lord’s Prayer.”
“Classic Anna.”
“Conrad’s mother never said a single word to any of us. Not even to Mum. And my stepsister Rosemary, clinging to her mother—this little white ghosty thing.”
“Do they still live here?”
“I have no idea. We never saw them after that. Leo left Mum a few months after Conrad died.”
“How old was Rosemary?”
“When Conrad died?”
Peter nods.
“Maybe fourteen?”
“Were you friends?”
“With Rosemary? God, no.”
“Why not?”
“She was . . . I don’t know. Odd. Spectrum-y—like she missed all the normal social cues, if that makes sense. I remember she liked to sing hymns.”
“You should look her up, see if she still exists.”
“She probably moved away ages ago.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Anyway, it would be too awkward. Calling out of the blue after all these years of making zero effort.”
“Better late than never.” Peter gets up off his barstool. “I’m going outside for a smoke.”
“You really should quit.”
“One of these days,” he says. I watch him cross the lobby away from me, push through the revolving doors out onto the sooty sidewalk.